A Tragedy in a Single Act
by grimmfeather
Summary: Ukitake knows he shouldn't drink--not from the good bottle, not in the dully silent hours past midnight, and most certainly not alone.


**Title**: Penance: A Tragedy in a Single Act  
**Characters**: Ukitake, Kaien, and Rukia  
**Rating**: T  
**Word Count**: 654  
**Warnings**: mentions of blood, character death, and alcohol use; spoilers for _Bleach_ chapter 136/episode 49  
**Notes**: _(o)choko_—a small, cylindrical _sake_ cup; _tokkuri_—a ceramic _sake_ flask

- - - - -

Ukitake knows he shouldn't drink—not from the good bottle, not in the dully silent hours past midnight, and most certainly not _alone_, for there will be no guiding hand to purvey sweet sanctuary from this ritual nightmare.

Inevitably, as the _choko_ slips from his fingers, the night crumbles around him.

The familiar late-night candlelight flickering about the 13th Division office warps and blurs in his peripheral, edges inching and creeping, vision clouding until he is drowning in the lustered, velvet darkness that engulfs from all sides. And, quick as he can blink back the solitary, cautionary tear of ill-boding premonition, he is absorbed again, _again_—into that sad little moon-swept tableau from all those midnights ago.

As the world of a thousand dreams solidifies around him, so do the remnant physical sensations, tangible as brightest day or inkiest night, until he can taste the soured bite of blood on his tongue, feel the sandpaper scrape and heave of dying lungs in his chest, smell the heady concoction of falling tears and tumbling rain down his cheeks as the cowardly stars vainly shelter themselves behind the clandestine veil of a downpour.

Amidst the overwhelming cacophony that swirls and eddies, sticking and cloying at him like a million fingers grasping for attention, Ukitake's eyes flutter shut as he steels himself instinctively for the would-be mercy of the blow that shall never fall—the ghastly monster usurping Kaien's form has already spirited past, hell-bent on pursuit of another target: The rain-blurred outline of Kuchiki's form is just barely visible over the crest of a hill, shadowed and _small, far too small_. Empty, scripted words and screams tear from his lips, though he scarcely recalls what shape the syllables once took; they will matter not in the end, _after all_. For his role has been and will be cast in stone, each and every countless time he is forced to reenact the morbidly trussed ceremony of this fractured tragedy.

Yet, despite endless, painstaking rehearsal, he is never prepared for the swift advent of the climax, now upon him.

A shuddering, bone-grating rasp pierces the woods for a single moment, collective breaths hitch in belated anticipation—_it's already too late; look, you've missed it_—blood splatters modestly about the scene, and hushed pleasantries are exchanged. The play closes in shambles before a deserted house, leaving only the hoarse applause of a distant crow to rend the fragile, lingering tension of the dénouement into a gaping void.

Ukitake falls soundlessly to his knees. And all at once, the illusory stage caves into the encroaching void, fading to blank monotony around him, until the fester of new-searing pain is evicted in favor of the throbbing ache of habitual reality. But still the tendrils of whispered eves past hang grimly in the air, polluting life and breath to slowly, slowly asphyxiate.

For the ugly truth of the matter in retrospect is that not a soul blames him for what transpired—_there's nothing you could have done_ and _it wasn't your fault_ and _these things happen_—and Ukitake wishes bitterly that they would, for a change, turn their pitying glances to alienating glares, their sickly sweet words to hate-tinged ice. For now, he will endure these plaguing night-phantoms as penance for deeds both done and undone, while somewhere in the recesses of his mind, an elusive thought springs to wavering life, the hope that patiently bearing his burden will absolve even a fraction of the ravenous guilt.

Nevertheless, the inspiration remains far from foolproof, and the night-obscured hour is presently waning. His bearings still muddled, Ukitake stumbles, trips, and drags himself across the rough floorboards to recover his abandoned _tokkuri_ and _choko_, then proceeds to pour the cherished security of another and another and _another_. . .until he can scarcely recall the number, clinging to threadbare prayers that _for once_ he might not remember anything beneath the penetrating, omniscient light of dawn.


End file.
